“Exposure.” I scoffed. “Colt, do you hear yourself? Surfside doesn’t need exposure. You know what exposure gets you on the California coast? You get found. You get put on a list. You get a hundred thousand Instagram posts that bring ten thousand strangers who park in the locals’ spots and leave trash on the beach. They drive up the rent until half the people who made this place worth finding can’t afford to live here anymore.” I shook my head. “You know what makes this town rare? It’s still small. It still feels like something real. That doesn’t exist out here anymore. Do you know what Malibu used to be? Laguna Beach? This place is a jewel, and everybody who lives here knows it because that’s exactly why we stayed. You could have known that too if you’d ever spent enough time here to see past the investment opportunity.”
He stared at me.
I stared back. “You visit your mega mansion a couple months out of the year. You don’t know what it’s like to live here. You operate in a tax bracket that is not real life. Don’t come here and try to tell us what we want. What we need. We don’t need private jets and mansions to be happy. We’re content with our basicbitch stuff. Old trucks. The surf and our zero-star restaurants. Period.”
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Are you?”
I could see he had a lot to say and I almost welcomed it, but he simply stared at me.
“Good.” I reached for the door. “I have a full pot of coffee and two kids who are about to start a new episode without me. Enjoy your day.”
I closed the door, leaving him to stand there if he chose.
My dad was on the sofa with Ocean wedged under one arm and the remote in his hand.
“Who was at the door?” he asked, without looking away from the screen.
“Some guy trying to sell something,” I said, moving back to the kitchen. “I sent him on his way.”
“Good girl.”
Becca walked into the kitchen in her robe. She reached for the pot and filled her mug. I dumped pancake mix into a bowl, filled it with water, and whisked it a little harder than necessary.
“Who was it really?” she murmured.
“Nobody.”
She looked at me sideways.
“Colt,” I said quietly.
Becca stared at me over the rim of her mug. “Why?”
“He came over to ask if I knew who vandalized the construction site,” I said, keeping my voice low. I jerked my head toward the living room where Dad had Ocean tucked under his arm and the volume on the television was mercifully high. “That’s it. That’s all it was.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I told him I didn’t know anything and sent him on his way.”
“Did you?”
“Becca.”
She held up a hand in surrender. I turned back to the bowl and added the chocolate chips to the pancake batter. Becca grabbed the bacon and placed strips in the cast iron pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen and I felt some of the tension in my shoulders release. Bacon made life better.
“So he just came over,” she said.
“Don’t.”
She flipped the bacon. “I’m making breakfast.”
I poured batter on the griddle. I could hear River laughing at something on the television. Dad loved the easy mornings. We all did. And that’s what I was focusing on.
I flipped the first pancakes, focusing on the edges and trying to get the image of a sweaty Colt out of my head. It wasn’t fair that he had gotten sexier. He was already starting at a ten and now he was a solid fifteen. How was I, a mere mortal, supposed to ignore him?
By the time everyone was settled at the table, the pancakes were stacked high, the bacon was drained on paper towels, and I had fresh coffee.